


Ocean of Secrets (illustrated)

by magicbubblepipe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, RMS Titanic, Romance, also the tenderness, basically functions as an expose on the Whitestar Line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23713294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: When Crowley uncovers a plot to sink a so-called unsinkable ship, he decides to take credit for it and collect a commendation from the safety of his London flat. That is, until he spots a certain flaxen haired angel with a weakness for expensive creature comforts boarding the ship. He's forced to take action, lest his beloved be horribly discorporated.TL;DRCrowley and Aziraphale were on the Titanic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 81





	Ocean of Secrets (illustrated)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for an embarrassingly long time I'm pleased to see it finally come to fruition. The Titanic has been a hyper-fixation of mine for as long as I can remember and I've always wanted to write something about it, especially concerning the giant and painfully obvious cover-up orchestrated by the powers that be, i.e. J.P. Morgan and J. Bruce Ismay.  
> Months of exhaustive research and fact checking later, here it is, finally finished and fully illustrated by yours truly.

_October, 1911_

_London, England, UK_

It was a brand new sound that woke Crowley from his depression nap. Blinking puzzled yellow eyes at the ceiling, he listened harder. The sound was definitely coming from outside.

He sat up and shook off the layer of dust that had accumulated while he was asleep, and crossed stiff-limbed to the window. Parting the curtain, he squinted into the sun, searching out the source of the strange grumbling. On the street beneath his window, Crowley spotted something he assumed was a hansom cab, until he saw the smoke billowing out from a pipe at the thing’s rear. He cocked his head and watched as the funny little cab started driving itself with no horses attached! Imagine! A self-propelled vessel that eliminated the need for horses—Crowley wholeheartedly approved.

He observed the passerby on the street long enough to take in the fashion of the time and adjusted his own outfit accordingly. Subtle changes, after all it was a rather short nap. At least compared to the previous one. A hollow pain briefly squeezed his chest as he remembered the reason for his downward spiral into unconsciousness— Aziraphale’s refusal of the only thing he’d ever outright asked for. He hadn’t seen the angel since that day, after he threw Crowley’s request into the pond and stormed off in his ridiculous fuzzy hat. Whatever. It was a brand new decade and Crowley was determined to enjoy it. 

The _automobiles_ , as Crowley discovered they were called, were truly a modern marvel. The humans had become more industrious during his nap, coming up with all kinds of clever inventions to improve their quality of life. Businesses that had been burgeoning under Victoria’s reign were now booming industries. And from these new businesses arose a new breed of human devil.

Crowley followed his nose toward the unmistakable scent of evil. It led him, as it often did, toward the wealthier parts of town, toward these new businessmen and CEOs as well as the old money snobs. There was always some kind of shady double-dealing going on between these mogul types, practically doing Crowley’s job for him. 

Still, he considered it to be in his best interests to be up to date on all the latest scandals and acts of terrorism, just in case his superiors came calling. He moved seamlessly into the upper classes, beguiling them into believing he was one of them. It didn’t take long to suss out the major players, one of which was an American fellow by the name of J.P. Morgan. 

His 1902 acquisition of the White Star Line into his _International Mercantile Marine Company_ had seemed like a smart business move, and it had been until the _HMS Olympic_ collided with another ship and caused thousands of dollars worth of damage, not to mention the loss of revenue the company suffered due to one of its passenger vessels being out of commission for repairs.

Mr. Morgan’s noxious thoughts seemed to surround him in a cloud of anxiety and malcontent that Crowley could smell clear across town. His demon instincts told him to keep an eye on this one because he was planning something big. Big and potentially disastrous. 

Crowley attended every party the man was invited to, invitations be damned. Occasionally, he followed him home from the shadows and hid in his garden as a snake. He could slither up the wall and wait outside Morgan’s office window where he picked up the most interesting bits of knowledge. 

It was in this manner that Crowley learned of Morgan’s impending trip to Belfast. It was a simple thing to make himself small enough to hide within the man’s luggage and sleep through the entire journey, coiled within a neatly folded shirt.

It occurred to Crowley that maybe he was taking this a bit far and perhaps he was simply trying to distract himself from this clawing need to see the angel again. And so what if he was? (He was.) Skulking around like, well, a demon was better than lying around his flat and binge drinking to thoughts of his beloved.

Better that he be here, at an Irish shipyard, staring at two enormous and almost identical ships. One read _Olympic_ , the other, still under construction, was called _Titanic_.

Mr. Morgan was meeting with two men— a Mr. Pirrie and a Mr. Ismay. The scent of diabolical intentions only grew as the men conversed over a series of furtive meetings behind closed doors and a few letters sent back and forth. And over the coming months, Crowley pieced together the plan the men had made. It was rather brilliant, in a nauseating kind of way. 

Crowley returned to the shipyard on the day they switched the names on the ships. The new ship, the one they called ‘Titanic’ was now ‘Olympic’. The recently repaired ‘Olympic’ was rechristened ‘Titanic’. This happened under the watchful gaze of Mr. Ismay and an Irishman called Andrews. Mr. Andrews’ face looked ashen and worried while Mr. Ismay looked almost gleeful at their clever deception.

“Not to fret, Mr. Andrews,” Ismay said, clapping the man on the back and causing him to startle. “The ones who go into the sea will be rescued within the hour.”

“And what of the others? The ones who don’t make it out in time?” Andrews asked. 

Ismay gave an odd half-smile beneath his curled mustache. “One must crack a few eggs to make an omelette.”

Crowley recoiled, having heard more than enough. It reminded him too much of Heaven and Hell and the ‘Greater Good’ the higher-ups were always blathering on about. 

It wasn’t long now, before the ‘ _Titanic_ ’ would set sail. The White Star line started to advertise it as the ‘Unsinkable Ship’. Crowley couldn’t have made this up himself, not in a million years. Humans were more cruel and devious than all the demons in Hell combined.

The ship’s worn tile floor was covered up with plush new carpet, fresh paint applied to the walls, fresh linens on the beds and unused silverware in the restaurant kitchens. Superficially luxurious, while all the objects of real value were removed and transferred elsewhere, like the bronze statues that had once adorned the ballroom. 

The tickets sold like hotcakes. J.P. Morgan boasted about being a passenger on the glorious new ship’s maiden voyage. As the day drew near, however, Morgan became mysteriously ‘ill’ and cancelled his trip. A similar illness afflicted Mr. Ismay’s wife and their children, along with a few more of Morgan’s close friends and colleagues. 

Crowley watched in morbid fascination, on the crisp April morning the ill-fated ship was scheduled to set sail, the bustle and excitement of passengers arriving to board. Hundreds had turned up just to watch their friends and loved ones leave or simply marvel at the sheer size of the ship they called the “ship of dreams”. Standing before it, Crowley felt the immensity of its form, its solid strength, and struggled to imagine it at the bottom of the ocean. He shivered, remembering the flood and Noah’s ark being tossed on the waves but safe, while everyone else floundered and sank.

Crowley was prepared to leave. He was in the process of walking away and going to get pissed in some pub, and then he heard that voice. He froze in place, hair rising on end, heart quickening in his chest. With dread, he turned and saw Aziraphale crossing the gangplank, fussing at some poor cabin boy who’d dropped the angel’s suitcase. He was radiant in the morning light, in his cream coloured ensemble, cane in hand. His hair was neatly parted but curly as ever, haloed by the sun.

Just imagining the fear and misery and possible discorporation Aziraphale was unwittingly walking into, made Crowley quite mad with worry. He’d barely formed the thought in his head when a first class ticket appeared in his hand; his cabin was formerly the suite of J.P. Morgan—and with a moment of concentration, Crowley willed a trunk of his belongings and several fine suits into the sitting room of his cabin. 

He hurried up the ramp, feeling smaller and smaller as he approached the mammoth of a ship. It was if he was walking into the mouth of a great beast, a willing lamb to the slaughter. He steeled himself and handed over his ticket as he boarded the ship. He’d protect Aziraphale, even if it painfully discorporated him.

His set of rooms was even more lavish than Crowley had anticipated. The walls were paneled in polished oak and all the Queen Anne style furniture had new matching upholstery. The bed was decked out in plush red and gold blankets, warm and inviting under the glow of the electric wall sconces. 

Crowley’s boots sank into the dense pile of the richly patterned carpeting as he explored his parlor and private bathroom. He marveled again at human ingenuity. How much progress they’d made just since Crowley went to sleep! A vessel more fine had never been constructed. A pang of sadness at the thought of all this opulence at the bottom of the ocean, not to mention countless innocent passengers and crew whose lives would come to an end in a matter of days. He really was a poor excuse for a demon; such destruction should bring an infernal creature pleasure. But Crowley couldn’t help but mourn such a loss of beauty and cleverness, and all thanks to the greed of men.

Crowley would watch it sink and collect his commendation. He’d be celebrated for causing such devastation and securing souls for the legions of Hell. And he would grin and brag and make a show of his false bravado until he could crawl away and drink himself stupid and maybe sleep for another decade. Just like after the Spanish Inquisition. 

Crowley had zoned out, staring at the gilded moulding of the fireplace, when he felt a shudder beneath his feet. He hurried out onto the promenade just as the ship lurched away from the dock, propellers churning the water in its wake. People of all classes pushed to get to the railing, waving goodbye to a country they’d likely never see again. Relatives and friends waving back from the docks with no inkling of the disaster to come. Crowley felt a bitter lump in his gut as he watched a man hoist a little girl into his arms for a better look at the water. That water would feel like freezing daggers in her tiny limbs. Crowley shuddered and retreated back to his cabin for a tall glass of scotch.

Aziraphale gaped in wonder at the domed glass ceiling that mimicked a clear blue sky. The staircase itself was a thing of beauty; he slid his palm along the silky wooden banister, smiling at the accomplishments of man. This truly was the finest vessel he’d set foot on in his admittedly, very long, life.

The room was quietly alive with the chattering of the upper-class. Aziraphale moved effortlessly among them, blending in with the rest of the human men in their black ties and tails. A fresh faced Italian waiter offered him a brandy and Aziraphale happily accepted. The drinks were nice but the angel could already smell his true prize—the food beginning to arrive in the dining room. 

Aziraphale followed his nose through the reception area and through the open double doors to the dining hall. The room was huge and distinctly Jacobean. The merlot coloured carpet contrasted with the white ceiling and walnut finishings beautifully. The tables were set for dinner, menus propped up invitingly before each chair. Aziraphale chose an inconspicuous spot for himself in the back of the room, wiggling excitedly in his floral patterned chair as his eyes scanned the hors d'oeuvres. 

A quartet began to play on their raised platform at the front of the room. It was lively but soft enough to allow conversation. Aziraphale was struggling to place the tune and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a familiar voice. 

“It’s from _Orpheus_ , I believe.”

Aziraphale dropped his menu and stared in startled delight at the flame haired demon standing before him in his wildly inappropriate sunglasses. A slow grin quirked the corner of Crowley’s mouth and he helped himself to the chair across from Aziraphale.

“Fancy seeing you here,” the angel finally said and he cleared his throat to get the breathiness out of his voice. His heart was pounding away in that same silly way it always did when Crowley was around. 

“I could say the same. What in the heaven are you doing here?” Crowley asked, idly perusing the menu himself.

“I’m to oversee the maiden voyage of this ship,” he said, puffing up with importance, “Apparently it bears some significance in human history. I can see why; it’s really quite magnificent.”

“What kind of significance?”

Aziraphale gave a little shrug, “They didn’t enlighten me, I’m afraid. A bit above my station.”

Crowley’s mouth thinned and he nodded. “Right. Greater good and all that rubbish.”

“Now, Crowley,” Aziraphale said warningly, “I’ll thank you not to blaspheme at the table.”

Crowley pulled a face at him, designed to annoy, but all Aziraphale noticed were the dimples in Crowley’s cheeks and the warm effervescence bubbling in his own chest. How he’d missed his friend these past years. If he were braver, he’d reach out and take the demon’s hand. He was still wrestling with that impulse when a waiter conveniently interrupted to take their orders. 

When he left again, the tension was broken and he and Crowley seemed to pick up where they left off, before the argument, before he broke Aziraphale’s heart by asking for a suicide pill. But Crowley was here and didn’t seem to be angry anymore, so as far as the angel was concerned, it was all water under the bridge. 

“How about you, then? What’s your business here?”

“I followed the scent of corruption and greed straight to the shipyard. And I’ll admit to being curious about the so-called unsinkable ship.” All sibilant ‘s’s and a pop on the ‘p’ in ship. Aziraphale smiled; he’d missed his distinct, well, _Crowley-ness_.

“Well, just don’t take that as a challenge,” Aziraphale chastised without any real venom.

“Oh please, this place is a monument to material excess. Why would I want to sink it?”

Aziraphale conceded his point. If there was one thing on which he and Crowley consistently agreed, it was the importance of luxury and creature comforts.

They fell into their old rhythms like no time had passed. Crowley ordered an entree he barely touched and then offered to Aziraphale, who pretended to consider it for a second or two before inevitably accepting. They shared two bottles of wine, an exquisite vintage merlot. Then Aziraphale insisted they switch over to white for desert. 

“Anything you want, Angel,” Crowley obliged easily and hailed down a waiter. Aziraphale warmed at the willingness to please. These little acts of devotion the demon would never admit to; Aziraphale holds them all close to his heart and never forgets a single one.

He ordered a delicate peach dish topped with sweet crème frȃiche and, as usual, Crowley took one bite, proclaimed it too sweet and left the rest for the angel.

Crowley watched, growing hot under his stiff collar as Aziraphale savoured every bite, pink tongue darting out to collect a stray bit of cream from his equally pink lower lip. Crowley shifted in his seat, spreading his legs as far as the chair would allow, ears burning as Aziraphale made tiny moans of contentment around his dainty dessert fork.

Crowley drained his wine glass for the umpteenth time and was eager to accept when Aziraphale finally set down his fork and suggested they adjourn to the smoking lounge. The dining room was clearing out; Aziraphale tended to lose track of time while enjoying a good meal and Crowley tended to lose track of time while staring at Aziraphale. The gentlemen and lady passengers split off from one another; Crowley and Aziraphale followed the men to an ornately furnished and dimly lit lounge. Men grouped together around small tables, passing around brandy and cigars. Crowley spotted a few familiar faces from his days among the London elite. 

A hazy cloud of smoke filled the air, softening all the edges and curves of the Georgian era furniture and the inlaid mother of pearl designs on the mahogany paneling. Crowley and Aziraphale found a cozy alcove to share a drink, near a stained glass window depicting a ship. It sent shards of colour over Aziraphale’s form, turning his white curls into a riotous rainbow.

He looked even more angelic than usual, his expression softened with alcohol, betraying his affection in lingering smiles and wandering hands. He’d touch Crowley every so often as they spoke, gently and only on the hand or the shoulder; but Crowley catalogued every precious one. Aziraphale filled him in on the years Crowley had missed—not so much in the way of current events but in the way of how Aziraphale had spent his time.

He’d frequented a gentlemen’s club that Crowley remembered from Before the Nap, and spent a good deal of time there in Crowley’s absence. He tried not to let himself be jealous, imagining all the lascivious things that men might have done with his angel. He slammed back another brandy and shook his head to banish the thought.

Aziraphale had travelled some, expanding his book collection and selling remarkably few of them for someone who claimed to run a ‘shop’. Crowley lounged back in his chair, feeling warm and loose-limbed enough to relax and just listen to the endless chatter the angel provided. Such a talkative being might be annoying to some but Crowley found it soothing, Aziraphale’s familiar cadences and inflections stirring up feelings of safety and happiness. 

He became more animated as he grew drunker, seaglass eyes gleaming, a smile always teasing the edges of his wine stained lips. A surge of wanting rolled through Crowley and before he knew it, he was physically jumping to his feet. Aziraphale looked adorably surprised, staring up at him with wide, albeit glassy, eyes. 

“Whassit?” He asked, sloshing a bit of brandy with his gesturing hand. 

“Nothing. Nothing, just uhhnn need some fresh air. Outside air, I mean. I need to go outside.”

Crowley booked it for the door, surprised his hair wasn’t going up in flame at the roots. Aziraphale called after him but Crowley was already making a dash for the promenade. 

The cold blast of sobering Atlantic air hit Crowley’s hot skin and stole the breath from his lungs. He stumble-walked over to the railing, putting his hands on the freezing metal. He could feel his heart rate slowing down, sweat drying cold on his forehead and upper lip. The sound of footsteps heralded the angel’s arrival. Crowley quickly composed himself and made a strong effort not to jump out of his skin when Aziraphale put a tentative hand on his back. 

“Is everything alright, dear?” 

Crowley hated himself for making a scene and causing the angel to worry. He was acting like a fool. 

“Yeah, no, fine, yeah, you know,” he said with a roll of his shoulders, “Air got a bit close. Needed a breather.”

Aziraphale moved to stand beside him and Crowley could feel his concerned gaze without having to pull his own from the black undulating expanse of ocean and moonlight. A moment of silence passed between them and then Crowley felt the angel’s warm fingers cover his own where they still gripped the frigid railing. He kept absolutely still, afraid to breathe lest the contact disappear.

“I really did miss you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, just loud enough to be heard over the ship cutting through the waves. “It was awful how we left things and I...I feared I wouldn’t see you again.”

Aziraphale’s words pressed into his heart like a bruise, awakening old hurt. He shook it off like he always does, making light of something when he can’t bare facing the truth.

“Nah, it’s all in the past, angel. Besides, I’d never leave you for good. Can’t even imagine the trouble you’d get yourself into without my constant supervision.”

Aziraphale swatted his arm but Crowley heard the laugh in his voice when he said, “Foul fiend.”

They parted ways after Crowley got too cold to stay out on the deck, each returning to his own cabin for the night. Crowley passed a couple of tipsy young newlyweds, leaning on each other as they laughingly tried to get their key in the lock of their door. Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if they would join the ship at the bottom of the sea in a few short days. Feeling rather miserable, he let himself into his own cabin with a gesture of his hand and crawled into bed with a bottle of bourbon from his personal bar. He really was a sorry excuse for a demon.

Aziraphale found the Cafe Parisienne delightful. The scent of sugary cakes and strong tea lured him to the enclosed veranda on A Deck, which they’d cleverly designed to resemble an outdoor cafe such as one would find in Paris. Trellises lined the room, crawling with lush green ivy on either sides of the huge windows that comprised the outer wall of the restaurant. The tables were small and alternated between square and round, giving the whole place an air of whimsy. 

Aziraphale was one of the first patrons of the day, as he had no actual need for sleep and a very persistent sweet tooth. As he suspected, the menu featured light fare one might expect to find at tea time. He ordered a full tea service with a steaming pot of fragrant earl grey and one of every type of cake and finger sandwich they offered. 

It wasn’t long before other patrons began filing in, bringing with them a lull of polite conversation and clinking dishes. A group of rather important looking men took the table across the way from Aziraphale. In the moment it took for the angel to assess the gentlemen, Crowley had materialized at his table with a crackle of energy, lounging in the chair nearest the window.

Aziraphale tried and failed to suppress a smile, warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of the demon. The demon who appeared slightly disappointed that he hadn’t managed to startle the angel. The pout on his lips was all the more endearing.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale chirped. Crowley gave him one of his fake-sweet grins that looked more like the baring of teeth. 

“If you say so, angel.”

It truly was a glorious morning. The sun was fully over the horizon, casting golden light across the shimmering surface of the Atlantic. Aziraphale felt bathed in warmth and quite at peace as he sipped his tea and conjured up a second cup for Crowley. The demon’s eyebrows rose over the rims of his dark glasses but the quirk of his lips suggested he was pleased.

Crowley had taken the spot by the window to have the best vantage point for eavesdropping on the men across the aisle but the warmth against his back was an added benefit. Another unexpected advantage was the view he had of Aziraphale. The sun seemed to be lighting him up from the inside, making him luminescent. His hair glowed like white fire, his eyes a kaleidoscope of blue and green, sparkling with pleasure as he enjoyed his vast assortment of delicacies. 

He tore his gaze away from the shape of Aziraphale’s lips as they curled around a fork, directing his attention to the matter at hand. Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews, accompanied by two other well dressed gentlemen Crowley didn’t recognize, were talking animatedly over their pot of tea. Ismay was loudly taking credit for the naming of the ship; his exuberance distracted attention away from Andrews’s slightly pinched expression. Ismay’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to the conversation with a startle.

“Wouldn’t you say so, Andrews?” 

“Oh, yes,” the Irishman replied, nodding, though it was clear his mind had been elsewhere. 

“Is it true the dining room is the largest one ever constructed on a moving vessel?” One of the unknown men asked.

Ismay preened under the attention while the ship’s actual architect nodded along, quietly supplying the actual dimensions of the room in question only when prompted by Ismay. He turned his attention to his tea, allowing his loquacious companion to steer the conversation.

“Crowley, are you even listening?” Aziraphale interrupted Crowley’s snooping, the hint of a pout on his face. 

Shit. 

“Er…” Crowley started, shrugging his shoulders, “Something, something books? Something, something crȇpes?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, shooting Crowley a glare while he dabbed his face with his napkin. “I said, these scones are just like the ones we had at the 100 Guineas Club.”

Crowley promptly dropped the spoon he’d been twirling between his fingers, letting it clatter loudly against the china saucer under his teacup. Leave it to the angel to casually remind him that he once belonged to an exclusive gentlemen’s club.

The sound attracted the attention of nearly everyone in the cafe, including Mr. Ismay and company. Dread curdled in Crowley’s stomach as he saw recognition alight in the other man’s eyes. 

“I say, is that you, Mr. Crowley?” called Ismay from across the aisle.

Crowley stood up, “Yes, but I’m afraid I was just leaving.”

“Well fancy seeing you here,” Ismay talked over him and Crowley had no choice but to stay, stood awkwardly beside his chair. “How are you enjoying the accommodations?” 

“Uh, first rate, yeah. Biggest boat I’ve seen and I’ve seen some very big boats. Congratulations there. Very big indeed,” Crowley babbled, “Though I was expecting to see Mr. Morgan aboard?”

The slightest twitch of Ismay’s mustache accompanied his lie, “Oh, Mr. Morgan took ill quite suddenly and had to cancel his trip. Dreadful business.”

“That’s most unfortunate. What about your lady wife, then? Is she on deck with the children?”

Crowley caught the hint of annoyance in Ismay’s tone when he replied that she too had fallen ill and had to stay behind. 

“Well that’s an odd coincidence, don’t you think?”

“If you say so,” Ismay said with affected nonchalance, “Fevers and the like are quite common in the spring.”

Aziraphale was watching this exchange with mounting confusion, tea cakes momentarily forgotten. 

“Excuse my manners,” Crowley said, gesturing to the angel, “Mr. Fell, this is Mr. Bruce Ismay and his companions, whom I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting.”

Introductions went around the tables in a similarly tiring manner until everyone was acquainted. Aziraphale had a few questions for the ship’s designer, mostly pertaining to food and the stunning interior decor, expressing his wonderment at human ingenuity. They were happy to humour him; Ismay lived for showing off and Mr. Andrews was back within his comfort zone of facts and figures. 

While they were still engaged in conversation, Crowley made a show of looking at his pocket-watch. 

“Sorry to have kept you for so long, Mr. Crowley,” Ismay said and the expression on his face suggested he was also ready for Crowley to leave. 

“Must be off if I intend to make use of the plunge bath this morning,” he plucked his hat off the table and placed it back on his head, “Gentlemen.” 

With a nod, he turned and made for the door, Aziraphale staring after him with a protest dying on his lips. Crowley ignored him and kept walking until he was in the foyer. The row of lifts caught his attention, specifically, the one that was standing open. It was filling quickly though and Crowley rushed to dip inside before the attendant could close the doors. He’d never ridden one of these things before and had to catch himself on the wall to keep from falling over when it started to descend. 

The lift stopped at C Deck and Crowley was quick to get back out. He didn’t care for the close press of other bodies in a confined space; it was too reminiscent of Hell. He was confronted with the Passenger Enquiry Desk and a sign that advertised the selling of tickets for the Turkish Baths. Crowley had used the plunge bath as an excuse but why not? He had nothing else on. However, paying for tickets was undemonic and Crowley wouldn’t stand for it. He turned and made for the staircase, following the directories until he found the floor he was looking for.

The baths were on F Deck, at the very bottom of the grand staircase. A plaque outside the door marked _Cooling Room_ , provided the hours designated for men and those for women, which didn’t really apply to Crowley anyway. Crowley focused very hard on expecting the room to be empty and it was. He took in the multi coloured tiles that lined the space, as well as the vibrant red ceiling. A cool water drinking fountain bubbled quietly behind him as he crossed the room to the little hallway leading to the pool.

It too was miraculously empty and Crowley enjoyed a nice swim in wonderfully warm water. He tried not to dwell on the irritating encounter he hadn’t been expecting. He hated being caught unawares. More than that, he wasn’t ready to tell Aziraphale the truth. He appeared to be having such a good time and Crowley dreaded seeing the cloud that would come over the angel’s face when that inevitable moment came. 

When he returned to the cooling room, he decided it was too cool for his serpentine senses and with a little focus, he transformed it into a steam room. He stretched out his lanky frame over one of the low lying couches, feeling every inch the sunning snake he was.

Crowley must have let his concentration lapse because he soon heard footsteps approaching the baths, the door opening and closing behind a single passenger, though he didn’t bother opening his eyes. Perhaps if he pretended to be asleep, the other person would leave him be. Maybe- 

“Crowley.”

His eyes flew open and he jolted upright. “Fucking hell,” he swore, eyes widening as he got a good look at Aziraphale. 

He was wearing a very flimsy white dressing gown and his cheeks were already flushing in the steam. Crowley pulled his knees into his chest to discourage any untoward reaction from his nethers at the sight of a nearly naked angel with beads of sweat gathering at the notch in his throat. Crowley’s foolish and unnecessary heart was pounding its excitement against the walls of his ribcage. How embarrassing.

Aziraphale took a seat on the chaise next to Crowley’s, a look of consternation on his face. “What was all that about back there?” 

Crowley’s brain scrambled for a clever explanation that would buy him a little time. He hated lying to Aziraphale; demon or not, it just made him feel sick somewhere in his chest. Making a series of non-committal noises to fill the air, he settled on giving Aziraphale pieces of truth. 

“Just some rich sod I’ve run into at a number of fancy parties. Works for the Whitestar Line, I believe.”

Aziraphale quirked one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You seemed to know a lot about his life to be a mere acquaintance.”

Crowley shrugged one freckled shoulder, avoiding the angel’s eyes but finding his gaze drawn instead to the tantalizing peek of pale thighs through the gap of his dressing gown.

“I’ve just been keeping an eye on all the major players in London. Work stuff.”

“Something’s bothering you, Crowley. What is it?” He was so gently imploring that Crowley’s insides burned with guilt. 

“Well at the moment, I’d say the angel interrogating me while I’m trying to enjoy a sauna is quite bothersome.” 

Aziraphale was predictably unamused. “Do be serious.”

No point resisting once Aziraphale set his mind to sussing out the problem. The angel was annoyingly dogged when pressed and not easily swayed by Crowley’s acid tongue.

“Here you are on the most wonderous ship ever crafted by human hands and you’ve hardly stopped scowling, so what, dear boy, is the problem?”

“That’s just it, angel,” Crowley said, “It’s a magnificent ship and I’m having a wonderful time.” The tone of his voice suggested the exact opposite.

Aziraphale stared at him. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“This ship—”

Crowley was interrupted by the sudden bustle and chatter of men entering the room, a group of five all appearing to be friends. The bath house was decidedly too crowded for Crowley’s taste. There was no way he could divulge such sensitive information surrounded by noisy strangers. Aziraphale’s closed off expression suggested he was also uncomfortable talking in front of the humans. 

“Meet me on the Boat Deck at sunset,” Crowley said, “I’ll explain everything.”

  
  
  


Crowley was first to arrive at their rendezvous point, just as the sky was turning from blue to a fiery coral. He heard Aziraphale’s footfalls before he came into view; his warm presence joined Crowley at the railing and he couldn’t resist the urge to take in the angel’s profile against the dying light. 

His gaze swept over the burnished glow of his hair, the curled tips of his long eyelashes, his perfectly formed nose and the beloved curve of his lips. He turned back to the water and perched his elbows on the railing. Looking straight down to water was like standing atop a very tall building and seeing all the ant sized people below. Crowley closed his eyes against a sudden wave of vertigo. 

“There’s something preying on your mind. Crowley,” Aziraphale said, with the gentlest touch on Crowley’s arm. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

“Theshipisgonnasink,” It all came out in a rush, releasing some of the pressure that had been building in Crowley’s chest. 

“Don’t be silly, dear. All the advertisements say it’s unsinkable.” He sounded so naively sure of himself. 

Crowley grit his teeth, removing his sunglasses and turning to face Aziraphale, so that he might see the sincerity in his eyes. “I’m not kidding, angel. All of this will be at the bottom of the ocean long before we reach the colonies.”

Aziraphale’s optimistic expression was beginning to fade, turning to one of concern and then suspicion. His blue eyes were glowing with holy fury and without his sunglasses, it was hard for Crowley to look at him. 

“This is your people, is it?” 

“No! I mean, I am planning to collect a commendation, but I swear, none of it was my idea.”

Aziraphale’s scowl deepened, “Oh how very convenient for you. So who were those gentlemen with the Whitestar Line? Some humans you tempted into doing your demonic bidding?”

“Demonic bidding? That’s a bit much.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s dark tone was warning enough. 

“You can believe whatever you want but I’m telling you the truth. The humans thought it all up; I’m just reaping the benefits. Just like the Reign of Terror.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, seeming to search the horizon for answers. “There has to be something we can do. I...I can talk to somebody, ask permission to intervene with the ship’s course.”

“Go ahead if that will make you feel better but the humans have their minds made up. It’s free will, angel.”

Crowley realized a little too late that Aziraphale had already blinked out of space halfway through his sentence. He sighed raggedly and rested his head in his hands, feeling the hum of the vessel beneath him as it cleaved through the water, listening to the hushed roar of the ocean, the creaking of rope, and then the bugle call that heralded the start of dinner. 

  
  
  
  


“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, Gabriel.”

Aziraphale was standing before his superior, hands clasped tightly behind his back. The bored look on Gabriel’s face suggested that he wished he was doing anything else but he pasted on his cheesy business-smile for Aziraphale’s (supposed) benefit; the one that never touched his unnerving purple eyes.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Well, it’s about the ship. It seems some humans have decided to capsize the vessel with over two thousand souls on board.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows climbed a little higher up his forehead and he shared an exasperated look with Sandalphon, ever present at Gabriel’s right hand.

“And?”

Aziraphale fumbled for a response, chilled at the other angels’ callous behaviour. “A-And? Don’t you think we should do something to prevent it?” 

“Why would we try to stop it? It’s part of the ineffable plan.” 

“We’ve interfered before…” Aziraphale trailed off, already feeling this line of argument grinding to a halt.

“Not on such a grand scale. Diverting a disaster that large would take a huge amount of miracle power. It’s a matter of resources, Aziraphale.”

“Resources,” Aziraphale echoed, his voice hollow.

“Besides, what difference could the loss of a couple thousand humans make in the grand scheme of things? We’ve lost far more for far less.” 

Sandalphon was nodding his agreement heartily. Aziraphale felt the distance between himself and his fellow angels grow wider; the longer he spent on earth, the less he could relate to the cold indifference the rest of the host of heaven shared.

“Is that all you wanted, Aziraphale? I’m on a bit of a tight schedule.” 

Aziraphale nodded, not trusting his voice. It must have been good enough for Gabriel because the next moment, he was back on the deck of the _Titanic,_ the sun now thoroughly beneath the horizon. The stars were shockingly bright against the black velvet sky, sparkling on the water. The muffled sound of voices and music carried out from the dining room. For once in his long existence, Aziraphale had no appetite. 

  
  
  


Crowley had waited around outside the dining room until it became clear that Aziraphale wouldn’t be joining him. He felt another stab of guilt for ruining the angel’s good time but he deserved to know the truth. Not wanting to face his empty cabin just yet, and not at all hungry himself, Crowley decided to explore the lower half of the ship. 

With a quick miracle, he dressed himself down enough to be inconspicuous; just a working man with a third class ticket. With a little extra effort, he made it so he deflected humans’ attention— he wasn’t necessarily invisible, just extremely hard to notice. 

Using the grand staircase, he first visited E Deck, then F. The hallways became more warren-like the lower he went. He walked up and down the rows of endless cabins, long white hallways that branched off into more identical hallways, hidden crew doors and lavatories tucked away in clever alcoves. One could easily get turned around in such a massive maze. 

By the time he reached the crew and steerage passageway, Crowley had acquired some new friends—four curious rats, excited to have someone with whom they could communicate. They ran alongside his feet except for the one he allowed to ride on his shoulder. Rats never said anything terribly groundbreaking but Crowley had a soft spot for the oft-hated creatures. They were misunderstood and given a bad rap, and as one of the first to fall from Heaven for simply asking questions, Crowley could relate.

The bowels of the ship had a certain dank feel to them that no amount of wood and pristine white paint could completely disguise. What he saw of the steerage accommodations were stark but not unpleasant; their dining room left a little to be desired but he’d certainly seen worse. With the lateness of the hour, the ship was eerily quiet save for the ever present thrum of boilers and pistons working away beneath his feet, giant propellers churning water in their wake.

A cold shudder moved through him and Crowley decided he’d seen enough for the night. The rats squeaked goodnight and went their own way, the one on his shoulder giving him a little lick on the cheek before scampering off. The clock on the grand staircase read nearly three in the morning by the time Crowley reached his cabin and he was more than ready to crawl under the covers of his opulent bed with a generous nightcap. 

  
  
  


After Aziraphale got tired of pacing the length of his room, he took to the deck to watch the sunrise. It was one of the things about living on Earth that he never tired of; each one was unique in its magnificence. He got used to watching them from his position at the Eastern Gate. Now watching the sun crest over the water, spilling radiance over its surface in tones of pink and gold, Aziraphale was filled with some measure of peace. 

He sat for some time, on a bench on the promenade, listening to the sounds of the ship coming to life. Nursemaids and children emerged first, and young mothers pushing their prams in the early morning quiet. An elderly couple shuffled past, taking the air with their grandchildren, who soon ran off to join the other kids in a game of catch. Aziraphale felt the weight of his new knowledge like a stone on his chest. 

Aziraphale stayed there for an age in quiet contemplation as the sun climbed higher, its warmth tempering the cold April morning. He barely noticed the figure sitting down beside him, until he caught a whiff of Crowley’s distinctive spiced-earth aroma. Sure enough the demon was lounging beside him, round sunglasses obscuring his thoughts from Aziraphale’s view.

“How’d your meeting with a higher power go?” Crowley asked, tone soft despite his teasing words.

“As you probably expected,” Aziraphale replied, “I’m not to interfere with the divine plan. Heaven doesn’t have the resources to stage a full scale intervention, nor did they seem to care very much.” 

Crowley snorted and shook his head. “Bloody bureaucrats, the lot of them” 

“Why? Why have the humans decided to sink the ship?”

“For the same reason humans do almost everything, angel. Money.”

“I don’t understand.”

“How could you? You’re an angel. It’s like this.” Crowley described the accident with the _Olympic_ and the resultant switching of the ships. “In order to keep the Whitestar Line from going under, they intend to sink this ship and collect the insurance policy.”

Aziraphale looked suitably horrified but then lit up with an idea, “But the lifeboats, surely if we help get everyone onto the lifeboats-”

“There aren’t enough.”

“Pardon?” 

“The lifeboats. There aren’t enough by half.” 

“Good Lord! Whyever not?”

“Something about them taking up too much space on the Boat Deck.”

Aziraphale twisted his hands in his lap, looking increasingly distraught and indignant with anger, “Oh, of all the stupid, silly things! Too much space. Who makes these ludicrous decisions?”

“Mr. Ismay and Mr. Morgan. Mr. Andrews is mostly just along for the ride. I don’t think the captain himself has a clue. He seems to be a simple, straightforward fellow. It’s a shame. He’ll likely die thinking it’s his own fault.”

Aziraphale’s soft hands were curled into fists, white at the knuckles. Crowley hadn’t seen him this upset in a while. He looked to be on the verge of tears but was obviously holding back. 

“So what are you doing here, then? Why board the ship at all if you know it’s going to sink?” Aziraphale asked, turning his wide imploring eyes on Crowley. 

Crowley shifted uncomfortably under the earnestness of the angel’s gaze. “Wasn’t planning to but I couldn’t just let you discorporate yourself could I?”

Though he steadfastly refused to make eye contact, Crowley could feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s gaze all along his right side. 

“Crowley…” 

“Spot of lunch?” Crowley interrupted, jumping to his feet. He held his hand out to Aziraphale. 

The look on his face suggested the angel wished to thank him or something equally unallowable. However, he just smiled softly and took the proffered hand, warming it instantly within his own. Crowley flushed up to his ears and ended the contact as soon as possible, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets. 

They dined in the ship’s restaurant, where Aziraphale enjoyed a three course meal and Crowley enjoyed watching him over several bottles of champagne. Crowley was tipsy enough to put the whole sinking business out of his head for a while and just bask in the angel’s company, listening to the ambling and unintentionally hilarious stories he had to tell. 

The room bustled around them, other diners coming and going in the time they spent at their table. Lunch dragged on well into dinner and of course, Aziraphale had to partake in dessert. Crowley was more than happy to indulge him, appreciating the angel’s flush of pleasure and inebriation. He may have magically refilled the same bottle of champagne a few times over but if Aziraphale noticed, he didn’t comment. 

After a stroll up and down the promenade, an idea popped into Crowley’s head and at his insistence, Aziraphale accompanied him back inside and found himself on C Deck.

“Where are we going?” he asked for the third time, betraying his level of intoxication.

“I told you it’ss a ssurprise,” Crowley hissed back, “Not far now.” 

“Will there be wine?”

Crowley laughed, “Calm down, you old lush, and trust me.”

Aziraphale pouted in the way that Crowley found frustratingly cute. Crowley got turned around once or twice; after all he was a bit drunk and had only passed this particular room one time, but eventually he found the door marked _Library._ As most people were at dinner, the room was nearly empty. Only a few second class ladies were at the scattered mahogany tables, reading and writing quietly. 

Crowley ushered Aziraphale in ahead of him and took in his delighted gasp with a bloom of warmth in his chest. Along one wall was a large bookcase, full of leather bound tomes which Aziraphale was drawn to like a moth to flame. 

“Why, Crowley, I had no idea this was here!” the angel said in an excited whisper. He caressed the spine of a Dickens first edition, tripped his fingers along the collection of gilded encyclopedias and Shakespeare folios before giving Crowley a smile so sincere it hurt. “Thank you for showing me this.”

Crowley gave an abortive nod and cleared his throat, “S’nothing, angel.” His skin prickled with heat, always a little uneasy with being outright thanked though it did make his infernal heart race. 

He left the angel to the books and crossed over to the windows overlooking the poop deck. It was dusk already and Crowley tried not to let himself ponder how much time they had. He sat down at a nearby desk and summoned a bottle of wine into one hand and a pair of glasses in the other. Aziraphale readily joined him with a stack of books, pulling a chair up to Crowley’s desk and taking a glass from the demon’s outstretched hand. 

Crowley poured the wine and they toasted to nothing in particular, clinking their crystal goblets while they watched the stars emerge over the limitless expanse of the Atlantic. 

On the morning of the fourteenth, Crowley overheard a conversation between Mr. Ismay and Captain Smith. He’d been following Ismay silently all morning, eavesdropping for relevant information since waiting around in his cabin was slowly driving him mad. Crowley lurked nearby as Ismay and Smith had their tea together, passing idle pleasantries back and forth until Ismay jumped right to the point of their meeting. 

“Everyone’s talking about _Titanic_ , that’s true. They marvel at her size but now I want them to marvel at her speed. Imagine everyone’s surprise when we arrive in New York _ahead_ of schedule.” 

The captain appeared reticent. “Mr. Ismay, with all do respect, I’d prefer not to light the third boiler until the engines have been properly run-in.”

“Of course,” Ismay said, with a twitch of his mustache that conveyed his annoyance despite the friendly tone of his voice. “As a passenger, I leave the final decision up to you. But just imagine the headlines!” He took a pull off his cigarette and stubbed it out only half gone. 

“Think it over, Smith.”

Crowley clenched his fists as he watched Ismay get up and leave. Captain Smith stayed there for several more minutes, stirring his tea mindlessly. From his spot concealed in the corner, Crowley watched as the captain pondered his situation and then ultimately left the room, his tea well-stirred but otherwise undrunk. One could only hope the captain would make the sensible decision, but humans were so rarely sensible. 

Aziraphale was standing alone at the bow of the ship when Crowley found him. The wind was ruffling his curls and he seemed deep in thought, palms resting on the rails, eyes on the horizon. Crowley stepped up beside him, letting the angel feel his presence before he started to speak. 

“News from the frontline.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, cautiously optimistic. 

The grim line of Crowley’s mouth doused that spark of hope. “Full speed ahead, I’m afraid. Ismay wants to make headlines.”

Aziraphale scowled in disgust. “What a monstrous man.”

“He’ll get his bloody headlines,” Crowley spat, “That’s for damn sure.” 

Crowley and Aziraphale met in the first class reception hall when the call for dinner service sounded. With nothing to do but wait, they decided to make the most of what time they had left on the luxurious vessel. Namely, to make the most of their food and wine selection. They joined the throngs of well-dressed passengers heading for the dining room. As they did, Aziraphale hooked his arm through Crowley’s and the demon tried not to vibrate out of his skin at the familiar gesture.

Perusing the menu, Aziraphale made a noise of surprised delight. “Crowley, they have oysters!” 

Crowley smiled at the memory they invoked. “When in Rome, ey?” 

Aziraphale chuckled, “That was a memorable occasion indeed. I shall never forget the look on your face after swallowing your first oyster.”

“Well you didn’t warn me it was so...gooey.” 

“I told you not to chew it!” 

The waiter mercifully interrupted to take their order. Oysters for starters, obviously, followed by lamb and mint sauce. Crowley said, “Same for me,” though he’d only pick at it and leave the rest for Aziraphale. He avoided the oysters entirely but he did enjoy watching Aziraphale tip his head back to swallow them. Of the vintage red wine, he thoroughly indulged—no point in all of this fine alcohol going to waste at the bottom of the ocean. 

Aziraphale ordered the chocolate and vanilla eclairs for dessert, which he claimed were exquisite. Crowley dipped a finger into the cream filling and popped into his mouth. The angel tracked the movement with his gaze and Crowley could swear his pupils were widening as Crowley sucked his digit clean. Aziraphale tore his eyes away, definitely a little pink around the ears. 

Crowley let out a hum of pleasure, “Exquisite indeed.” 

He wasn’t sure what kind of rise he was trying to coax from Aziraphale but Crowley was feeling dangerously bold. If the way Aziraphale squirmed in his seat was any indication, the angel was definitely not unaffected by his wiles.

Aziraphale finished his eclairs and they polished off another bottle of wine. Couples had taken to the dance floor and were moving stiffly to the slow waltz the band was playing. Aziraphale was nodding along to the music, flushed and content and Crowley had the inane urge to dance with him. Just sweep the angel out onto the floor and show those uptight millionaires what real dancing looked like. 

“Shall we take the air, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, shaking Crowley free of his daydream. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowely stood and tossed his napkin down on the table. With his other hand, he helped Aziraphale to his feet and they ventured out onto the deck. 

The evening air was brisk and the sky was like pitch. It took Crowley a moment to realize the moon was missing, a black void in its place. 

“It’s a new moon,” he said aloud. 

“Sorry?” Aziraphale asked.

“Think about it. Without the moonlight it’ll be that much harder to navigate. By the time anyone sees an obstacle it’ll be too late to turn.” 

Aziraphale was silent beside him as they continued to walk the deck, a frown creasing his brows; Crowley could practically see his gears turning. 

“Don’t waste your energy, angel. The humans have this all planned to the letter.”

“I hate feeling helpless,” Aziraphale admitted, twisting his pinky ring around his finger. 

Crowley’s heart ached for him. “I know.”

“Either you fine gents have a light?” a voice interrupted.

They turned around to see a young man, one cigarette tucked behind his ear and another pinched between his teeth. From his attire, Crowley could tell he was steerage and his accent betrayed his Irish heritage. 

Crowley conjured a pack of matches into his hand and struck one for the stranger. 

“Ta very much,” the man said, leaning in with a cupped hand to light his cigarette.

Crowley shook out the match and vanished it and watched the man pull in a lungful of acrid smoke. He was looking the demon and angel up and down, a curious expression on his face.

“You boys look like you could use a good time,” he said and took another drag. “If ye’s don’t mind the riff-raff, there’s a party going on in the General Room downstairs.” 

A good time was exactly the thing Crowley wanted to distract himself from the coming disaster. Before the angel could voice any polite protest, Crowley jumped on the offer, assuring the young man they’d both love to attend. He finished his smoke and tossed the butt over the railing. 

“Follow me, then, I’m headed there myself,” he said and then stuck out a blunt calloused hand. Crowley shook it, and then Aziraphale. Crowley wasn’t a fan of the way the man’s gaze lingered over the angel but he seemed decent enough and obviously knew his way around third class. 

“I’m Tom, by the way.” 

“Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell,” the demon replied. 

“A pleasure,” Aziraphale offered.

They followed Tom back inside and down the stairs. The two gathering rooms for third class passengers were tucked away in the stern of the ship, just beneath the poop deck. Music greeted them at the bottom of a double staircase. The General Room had little in the way of furniture besides some long wooden benches. The rest was open space for dancing and mingling. The party was already going strong by the time they arrived, hundreds of people packed in to hear the band composed of passengers and their instruments.

“Now _this_ is a party,” Crowley said directly into Aziraphale’s ear, having to shout to be heard over the music and chatter.

“It certainly is different,” Aziraphale shouted back, watching the energetic dancers toss each other about the dance floor, the ragtag band playing hard and loud, men and women drinking tall mugs of beer and smoking over their games of cards; two brutes arm wrestling in the corner, surrounded by a crowd of jeering onlookers. It was a vibrant spectacle, teeming with human life. 

Crowley disappeared while Aziraphale was watching the dancers, only to reappear a moment later at his side with two pints of ale. He pressed one into the angel’s hand, their fingers brushing with a spark of electricity that both noticed but neither mentioned. In the dim room, Crowley felt safe removing his sunglasses, taking Aziraphale by surprise when he looked up and caught a flash of serpentine yellow above the sharp quirk of a grin. 

Aziraphale went warm up to the roots of his hair, feeling a familiar want clawing at his insides. He hid his scarlet blush behind his mug, draining half of his beer in one go. His head was swimming pleasantly, skin tingling every time he and Crowley were forced to touch by the press of humans around them. Aziraphale wondered how long he’d be able to stand it before doing something to embarrass himself.

One song ended and the band launched into another lively jig, to a round of cheers from those who knew the tune. The humans began linking arms with one another and dancing in sync, pulling others in as they went to form a chain. Aziraphale had witnessed line dancing before at parties but had never participated. This time when the line moved his way, he eagerly joined the end of the chain, pulling Crowley in after him. 

“Wh-Hey!” Crowley staggered after him as Aziraphale securely linked their arms together. 

The angel was laughing, effervescent with joy as they danced around the room, collecting more and more dancers until their chain filled the small space. Crowley was smiling in spite of himself, drunk enough to loosen the stranglehold he kept on his adoration for Aziraphale, letting himself look and linger, and revel in the contact between their bodies and the careless bounce of white-blond curls that sometimes brushed his face when they were pressed close. Aziraphale’s scent was intoxicatingly warm—like crackling fireplaces and spiced tea, and Crowley wanted to wrap it around himself like a blanket.

Aziraphale caught him staring but instead of looking away, he simply smiled back, eyes soft and dark with some emotion Crowley wasn’t used to seeing there. It was thrilling and frightening and he wanted more of it, all he could get, in fact. While he was busy staring at the angel, Crowley managed to trip over a small rise in the floor and would have gone down and taken the line with him—had Aziraphale not tightened his hold and lifted Crowley back to rights as if he weighed no more than a feather.

The show of strength was enough to knock the wind out of Crowley and make him absolutely tingly with arousal. He somehow summoned the strength to keep his legs from buckling until the song was over and he was released from the chain so everyone could applaud the band. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand before he could start clapping and led him through the maze of bodies, making a beeline for the nearest exit. Aziraphale was asking him what was wrong but Crowley could barely hear him over the rush of his own heartbeat.

Dodging around the passengers descending the stairs, Crowley led Aziraphale back up onto the deck. The cold wind hit his feverish skin and made him shiver but there was still so much heat burning just under the surface. 

“You’re trembling,” Aziraphale said, his hand now cupping Crowley’s in his warm and steady embrace. “Are you alright, dear?” 

Crowley looked both directions, making sure they were alone, before grabbing Aziraphale by the lapels and pushing him against the nearest wall, cloaked in the long shadows cast by the ship. Aziraphale seemed to catch on as soon as his back touched the wall and Crowley heard the catch of his breath before their lips met in a searing kiss.

Colours burst beneath Crowley’s closed eyes as the angel melted beneath him, parting his lips in silent invitation. He couldn’t help the groan that slipped free of his throat and Aziraphale answered it with one of his own, threading his fingers into Crowley’s hair. Fire raced along his scalp, sending jolts of pleasure down his spine as he licked into Aziraphale’s mouth, finding it just as sweet and addictive as he always imagined.

Aziraphale sighed into the kiss, pressing up against Crowley’s lean form and letting him feel the shape of the Effort tenting his trousers. Crowley let out a guttural sound and bucked against him, crushing Aziraphale between his weight and the wall. Aziraphale shuddered and spread his legs, letting Crowley get as close as he could, all the while pawing his back and sides, feeling Crowley’s slender frame beneath his clothing and swallowing the desperate sounds that poured into his mouth.

Crowley tore his lips away long enough to ask, “My room?” 

Aziraphale stared up at him, mouth kiss-red and swollen and for a horrible second, Crowley was afraid he’d gone too far. Then a slow, flirtatious smile bloomed across his face and Crowley’s heart skipped several beats, then launched into somersaults. 

“I thought you might never ask,” Aziraphale said, voice low and conspiratory in a way that turned Crowley’s blood to hot magma.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley breathed, pressing one more needy kiss to his lips before pulling back and snapping his fingers.

In the span of a blink, they found themselves standing in the middle of Crowley’s lavishly appointed rooms. Aziraphale huffed out a laugh as he took in his new surroundings.

“Impatient, are we?” he asked. 

“You have no idea.”

Crowley closed the distance between them again, taking the angel’s face between his hands and kissing him over and over until they were breathless with it. Aziraphale’s hands snuck under his waistcoat and shirt, pressing hot palms against Crowley’s bare skin and the demon arched into every caress, groaning raggedly into Aziraphale’s neck where he had started sucking bruises. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale sighed, tipping his head back for more. Crowley was happy to indulge, flicking his tongue out at the base of Aziraphale’s throat, scenting him before biting down on the pale soft skin under his jaw.

The angel’s body rolled up against him and he started to frantically undo the buttons of Crowley’s waistcoat and the grey silk shirt beneath. 

“May I?” Crowley asked, hands hovering over Aziraphale’s loosened bowtie. 

“Oh, please do,” came the angel’s breathless reply. That was all the permission he needed to start tearing at Aziraphale’s clothing with eager, shaking fingers.

Divested of their upper layers, Crowley started maneuvering them both toward the bedroom. Aziraphale let himself be backed toward the bed and sank down into the sumptuous bedding. Crowley took a moment to admire him, pale skin against the red and gold blankets; his flush spread down his chest, the same enticing color as his rosy nipples. 

Crowley moaned aloud at the sight of him and simply buried himself in the angel’s chest. Aziraphale’s arms came up around him as Crowley nuzzled against the soft blondhairs over his sternum. He wanted to be utterly surrounded in Aziraphale, wanted to see and smell him everywhere, bed down and nest within him and never be parted again. His thoughts were running to nonsense as Aziraphale tugged at his hair, encouraging Crowley’s mouth, now latched over his right nipple, then sucking and kissing his way over to its twin. 

Aziraphale was awash in sensation and pleading for more. His legs had come up around Crowley’s sides, trapping him tight against his chest, as if Crowley would want to be anywhere else. He realized he was speaking, a breathy chant of “Please, please, please…”

Crowley was nearly delirious with arousal. Aziraphale kept wriggling beneath him, and it was a simple matter to line their hips up and rock together. Crowley hissed, eyes rolling back as he throbbed a patch of wetness into his pants. Aziraphale was mouthing at his neck, dragging his teeth along his pulse and Crowley felt like he might combust from sheer need.

“Tell me, angel,” Crowley panted, pulling back enough to see the lust scribed over the angel’s face. “Tell me what you need.”

“Take me,” Aziraphale said, voice soft but resolute, “Crowley, please.”

Crowley’s ears were burning as he nodded wordlessly and vanished the rest of their clothing with a wave of his hand. He leaned back and drank in the sight of Aziraphale’s naked form. Miles of perfect skin and soft give that Crowley was desperate to sink into. He palmed Aziraphale’s thighs and groaned, cock twitching as the angel gasped his name, hands going for the patch of dark hair on Crowley’s chest and the hard peaks of his nipples.

Aziraphale gazed up at him with a look of utter devotion that made Crowley’s throat close up with words he could never put voice to. A soft palm cupped the blade of his hip and the other wrapped its velvet warmth gently around the shaft of Crowley’s weeping erection. The demon’s head dropped back on a hiss and his hips jumped into Aziraphale’s touch. 

“If you keep that up long, I’m not going to last,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, as he leaked into the angel’s hand. 

Aziraphale gave him a slow stroke before reluctantly letting go. “Somehow I don’t think that will be a problem,” he said with a sheepish little smile that Crowley had to kiss. 

“Lie back,” Crowley instructed, nipping at Aziraphale’s lips before pulling away. 

Aziraphale obeyed beautifully, spreading his thighs in a way that was both wanton and innocently trusting, a thing only he could manage. Crowley drank him in, his soft curves and the thick, rigid line of his flushed prick. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and drew his fingers below the tight swell of his sac and suddenly his fingers were engulfed in molten wetness. 

They both moaned at the same time, Crowley’s cock drooling as he probed deeper and found the angel to be deliciously ready for him. 

“I skipped ahead a few steps,” Aziraphale admitted with a blush. 

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley groaned, kissing him fiercely as he slid his fingers free and lined himself up in their place.

Aziraphale bit his plump lower lip as the head of Crowley’s cock carefully breached his entrance. He was a vision with his wrecked curls and Crowley’s bruises adorning his neck—a perfectly debauched angel. Trembling at the tight heat steadily pulling him in, Crowley bottomed out with a gasp, hips resting flush against Aziraphale’s gorgeous thighs. 

Hooking his legs around Crowley’s back, Aziraphale swiveled his hips in a way that had stars popping in Crowley’s vision and he started to thrust. Every drag of the angel’s inner walls around his cock was sweet agony and the noises he pulled from Aziraphale’s mouth rang in his ears and shivered down his spine, joining that rapidly growing ball of heat in the cradle of his hips.

“You’re so good,” Aziraphale said, voice high and breathy with pleasure, “You feel wonderful, Crowley.”

“Ngg—angel…” was all he could manage. He quickened the piston of his hips and buried his face in Aziraphale’s throat, feeling the rumble of his resultant groan all through his body. 

Crowley’s hands roamed every inch of skin he could reach, palming the generous rounds of his arse and the swell of flesh over his hipbones. He was decadence incarnate, the only worthwhile piece of heaven left and he was wrapped up in Crowley’s arms. 

“So beautiful,” Crowley growled, kissing Aziraphale’s slack mouth as he moaned with abandon.

Aziraphale was close; Crowley was hitting his sweet spot on every other stroke and his own Effort was trapped between their bodies, ready to burst without ever being touched. He curled his fingers in Crowley’s hair, heels digging into his lower back to urge him on, deeper, harder.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasped, hips stuttering as the angel squeezed tighter around him, “I’m- I’m almost..”

“Me too,” Aziraphale said, “Do it, Crowley. Please.”

The tension in Crowley’s gut was reaching a breaking point, his whole body buzzing with it. He reached a hand between them and wrapped it around Aziraphale’s swollen cock. Aziraphale arched into his hand and clenched around him with a cry of Crowley’s name. Wetness spurted through Crowley’s fingers and splattered on his chest and they moaned together. The intoxicating scent of angelic essence and the rhythmic pulses of his tight channel pushed Crowley right over the edge and he came with a strangled sound between a sob and and a growl, releasing hot and wet inside the trembling angel.

They rocked together, riding out their mutual orgasms as Crowley smeared kisses over Aziraphale’s panting mouth and the sweat-slick column of his throat. Aziraphale stroked his heaving sides and kissed the damp red mess of the demon’s hair where it tickled his nose. His whole being was thrumming with the strength of his love, sure he must be softly glowing with contentment.

For the first time in days, Crowley wasn’t thinking about anything; his brain had been reduced to a blissful warm haze where there was only Aziraphale, the clean sea salt taste of his skin and the drying cum sticking their bodies together. He wanted to live forever in the perfection of this moment, the angel’s breath ghosting over the nape of his neck as Crowley slowly softened within him. 

Their bubble of peace was rudely broken by violent shudder, a deep grating sound emanating up from the hull of the ship. Crowley sat upright, quickly miracling them clean and making a dash for the window. With a sick feeling in his gut, he saw the tip of an iceberg pass below his cabin, so near he could feel the frost coming from it. The ship was banking hard to the left but the right side still managed to clip the bulk of the ice, hidden beneath the surface of the water. 

Chunks of ice hit the deck and busted into pieces amid the shocked exclamations of passengers and crew. Crowley turned back to face Aziraphale, who was now dressed and straightening his bow tie, the fear in his eyes betraying what they both knew to be true.

“This is it,” the angel said, “isn’t it?”

Crowley’s face was ashen, his mouth flattening into a grim line as he nodded.

A knock on the door came moments later, followed by a voice requesting immediate entry. Dressing himself with a thought on the way to the door, he was surprised to see it already being opened by a crewmember he didn’t recognize. 

“Pardon the intrusion, sir, but the captain has ordered all the passengers to gather in the lobby,” He was holding a number of life jackets tucked under one arm and, seeing Aziraphale over Crowley’s shoulder, pushed two into the demon’s hands.

“Is something wrong?” Crowley asked.

“I wouldn’t panic, sir. The lifebelts are only a precaution. I’m sure all will be well.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley muttered but the man was already leaving, on his way to the next cabin to repeat the same spiel. 

Crowley tossed one of the life jackets aside, “Don’t reckon you’ll need one of these, what with the walking on water business.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale replied but he was picking up the discarded jacket. “Still, we should both put them on. We don’t want to call attention to ourselves.”

Crowley scowled at the heavy white vest in his hands and reluctantly shrugged into it, tying it tightly around his middle and Aziraphale followed his lead. 

“We look ridiculous,” Crowley said, swinging open the door to the hall. “After you, angel.”

Aziraphale stopped on his way out the door and pressed a sound kiss to Crowley’s lips, hands gripping the front of his vest to pull him in. It was over as suddenly as it started and Aziraphale ducked under his arm and out into the hall. Crowley blinked after the angel, chest aching with love for him. He followed close behind, never letting Aziraphale out of his sight as they entered the throng of passengers heading for the reception area. 

First and second class ticket-holders milled about beneath the false skylight, speculating on when they’d get to return to their rooms. Some had clearly been woken up and wore their coats and hats over their nightclothes. A crewmember was fervently arguing with a woman in a mink stole, who refused to wear her lifebelt. Her husband was busy trying to hail down a waiter for a drink. 

Crowley could tell from the looks on the faces of the crew—the wild edge of panic in their eyes—the situation was much more dire than they were letting on. They tried admirably to keep the passengers calm and sated with whatever they requested. Crowley was forever surprised at the arrogance of wealthy humans, who had the gall to demand such trivial things in the face of a disaster. They never seemed to understand that they too were mortal and no amount of money would be able to save them; not this time.

The passengers grew agitated the longer they were forced to wait without explanation and Crowley decided he’d rather be on deck and see for himself. He gestured to Aziraphale, who nodded and followed him outside into the frigid night. All the humans who had witnessed the event were gathered together on deck. A couple of second class children were kicking around the pieces of broken ice, oblivious to the danger they were in.

Crowley and Aziraphale crept around in silence, heading for the helm of the ship. A group of harried looking men including Mr. Andrews and Mr. Ismay were arguing in hushed tones. Crowley pressed close to the wall and snuck within range of the open door, his preternatural hearing picking up their voices without trouble. 

“What of the watertight bulkheads?” Captain Smith asked. 

“Unfortunately, Mr. Ismay decided to cut funding before they could be finished,” Andrews replied. Crowley could hear the bitter acid in his voice. “The bulkheads go no higher than E deck, sir.”

Ismay spluttered out some phony excuse that got lost under the Captain’s outraged swearing. When Smith collected himself, he asked Andrews how much time they had left.

“An hour. Two at most.”

“What about the pumps?” piped up First Officer Murdoch. 

“The pumps buy us time,” Andrews replied, “but minutes only. _Titanic_ will founder. It is a mathematical certainty.” 

A moment of tense silence passed. The Captain’s next words fell cold and heavy like a stone.

“Well, Mr. Ismay. Looks like you’ll get your headline.”

Crowley turned to see Aziraphale beside him, back pressed against the wall. The tears standing in his eyes said he’d heard everything. He wanted so badly to believe in the goodness of mankind and was so often disappointed. Crowley slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s and squeezed it tight. The angel gave him a grateful half-smile, his warm fingers squeezing back.

They made their way toward the lifeboats and saw that the passengers had started to spill out onto the deck, bedecked in their life preservers. Some crewmen were readying the first lifeboat for departure, one of them cupping a hand to his mouth and calling loudly for all women and children. Crowley’s eyes scanned the crowd gathered and noticed they were all first class passengers. 

“Where’s everyone else?” Aziraphale asked, as if reading his mind.

“Yeah, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Come on.” 

Crowley reentered the ship on D deck with Aziraphale close on his heels, finding far fewer passengers milling around the lobby. They took the grand staircase down another level and Crowley’s feet sank into freezing water up to his ankles. He hissed, reptilian instincts recoiling at the needle-stab pain of cold. He heard Aziraphale suck in a gasp as he splashed down into the corridor; it wouldn’t do to be seen walking on water, even during a crisis. 

“We’re going down by the head,” Crowley said, staring down the hallway toward the bow of the ship, where more water was steadily pouring in. 

“Do you hear that yelling?” Aziraphale suddenly asked and Crowley realised that he could. 

With a gesture, he let the angel take the lead, following his ears down the narrow maze until the sound of screaming was overwhelming. At the very bottom of the next stairwell, a metal gate had been drawn across and locked. Arms reached desperately through the bars, a hoard of third class passengers trapped with water up to their knees. When they caught sight of Crowley and Aziraphale, their yelling doubled in volume and they began to shake the gate, pleading for help. 

“Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell!” a familiar voice called.

Tom fought his way through to the bars, staring at them beseechingly. Aziraphale approached the gate immediately, sloshing through the water and conjuring a key discreetly into his hand. He hurriedly worked the key into the lock, amid cries of exultation. Hands reached through and petted his hair and shoulders in appreciation, and as soon as the lock clicked open, they began rushing through. Tom clapped Aziraphale on the back as he made a break for the stairs.

“Who locked you in?” called Crowley. 

“Some limey Whitestar bastard,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

“What a surprise,” Crowley growled through clenched teeth. 

The ship groaned like a wounded dragon, the electric lights flickering, dying for a moment, and flaring back to life. Crowley’s ears picked up a faint cry, like that of a frightened child. The echo of the ship and the pounding rush of water almost drowned it out, but Crowley started following it, the water creeping up to his waist. 

“We should go back up on deck,” Aziraphale called, trudging after him down the passageway. 

“Shh,” Crowley held a finger to his mouth and gestured to his ear; ‘ _I’m listening’ ._

Aziraphale went quiet and continued to follow as he turned down yet another long corridor. 

“I hear it now too,” Aziraphale said. 

Together, it didn’t take long for them to pinpoint the sound—and it was coming from one of the public lavatories. Crowley pulled open the door, allowing water to flood in at full force. Standing atop the lid of the toilet and sobbing profusely was a little boy no older than four years old. Without a thought, Crowley swooped in to pick him up, situating him securely on one narrow hip. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale softly exclaimed. “Where do you suppose his mother is?” and then to the child, “Do you speak English, sweetheart?” 

The boy continued to cry wordlessly, sucking on his fingers and hiding his face in Crowley’s jacket. 

“There’s no time to go searching for her now, is there?” Crowley said, bouncing the child on his hip somewhat erratically. 

“No, I should say not,” Aziraphale conceded. “After you.”

Crowley took the lead and they waded back to the stairwell, frigid water now encasing his ribs. With effort, he hauled himself up the stairs and out of the water, his cork life preserver sagging heavily. Aziraphale was right beside him when they burst out onto the deck and were confronted with a scene of disaster and commotion. 

All but six lifeboats were gone, Crowley could see them rowing away from the sinking vessel. A searingly bright light shot into the air from one of the departing boats—a signal flare which exploded with a red starburst against the infinite black of the moonless sky. The bow of the ship was partially submerged, even with the pumps gushing water full blast. People were teeming over the boat deck, Captain Smith overseeing the filling of the lifeboats. No men were being permitted to board. Second and third class women and children had to be wrenched from the arms of their husbands and fathers and brothers. Even a boy who appeared to be no more than twelve, was refused a spot. 

“Crowley, change into a woman,” Aziraphale said, gripping his arm urgently. 

“Right,” the demon replied, for he had been thinking of the same idea. 

With a snap, his black suit was replaced with an equally black dress, buttoned modestly up the front with a matching bonnet; he looked like the nanny of a second class household, complete with an apron tied around his front. He used a little demonic magic to keep the child unaware of the sudden change, When he turned back to to get Aziraphale’s opinion, he was surprised to see the angel had made a gender swap of his own. 

He was now in a lovely cream and blue ensemble with a wide brimmed fashionable hat perched atop his rapidly grown white curls. Had it been any other time, Crowley would be lavishing the angel with compliments but there were more pressing matters at hand. They bustled forward, the water now pouring in over the rails and soaking the hems of their gowns as they made their way to the -now two- remaining lifeboats.

The Captain was surprised to see two women still aboard and he hurried them to the front of the queue. Smith seemed calm and in control though Crowley could imagine the panic he must be feeling. He helped Crowley and Aziraphale over the side of the lifeboat and they took a seat next to a frightened young woman, crying for her husband who was waving stoically from the deck of the sinking ship. 

All the while, there was music. Aziraphale caught Crowley’s arm and gestured to the eight member band standing bravely together on Titanic’s deck, playing a hymn to the countless crew and passengers trapped on board with them. The lifeboat gave a lurch to the side and then it started to lower, their view of the upper decks obscured as they neared the ocean below. 

There was one seaman present on their boat; the rest were women and girls. He shouted to be heard over the screams and the music, instructing them to row fast once they hit the water, lest they be sucked into the chasm left behind when the ship went under. Aziraphale was quick to grab an oar and some of the other women followed his example. Crowley held the boy on his lap, who was now quiet but wide-eyed with fear and shivering. 

As soon as the lifeboat was released, they rowed with all their might away from the pull of the water. The bow was sinking faster and faster, and then the lights went out with a dying flicker, leaving everyone in pitch blackness amid screams of terror.

There was nothing but the shape of the hulking mass of the ship against the stars and the horrible shriek of metal as the strain became too much for the hull to bear. Crowley watched in horror as the great vessel snapped in two right down to the keel, keeping the child’s face pressed to his chest as they rowed frantically away. They didn’t stop until they were a half mile from the wreckage, still near enough to hear the screams of the drowning, and those clinging to the back end of the ship. 

The bow pulled it down as it broke and the stern lifted high into the air, great propellers against the sky as people started to jump. Their small shapes fell like so many apples from a tree, only to be immediately sucked under the water with the rest of the ship. Aziraphale’s eyes never wavered from the scene, though tears were rolling down his cheeks. His raw hands were numb from rowing and rested listlessly in his lap— it was an uncommon stillness for the often animated angel and it turned Crowley’s stomach with unease. 

The rest of the ship let out a horrible, grating cry as it began to swiftly descend. Those treading water swam away if they could, clinging to wooden debris or the overturned belly of a collapsible boat. The screaming finally came to an end, followed by a deafening silence as the ship disappeared completely beneath the surface of the Atlantic. The woman who lost her husband began to sob in earnest and Aziraphale pulled her into his arms, offering a motherly shoulder to cry on. 

Time wore on and the night grew colder. Crowley looked around at the stricken pale faces of the women around them and saw that there was still plenty of room for more, yet no one expressed the desire to return to the wreckage. 

“We have to go back,” he said. 

Everyone turned to stare at him. The crewman at the helm of their little boat had his arms crossed firmly, a scowl on his wind-chapped face. 

“Like hell we are,” he said, already shaking his head obstinately. “They’ll swamp the boat!”

“With what bloody strength could they swamp the fucking boat?” Crowley demanded, losing the composure he usually tried to maintain while presenting as a woman. 

Aziraphale was giving him a look, but not one of warning. One that said, ‘go on’. 

“We’re wasting time,” Crowley went on, standing and sitting the child aside, “And if you’re not going to row back, then I will.”

“So will I,” Aziraphale piped up. 

“Sit down, you stupid cow!” hollered the crewman as Crowley advanced on him quickly. 

He couldn’t control himself. In his anger, Crowley hissed, letting his face contort into a more demonic arrangement, his eye-teeth lengthening into snake-like fangs. The sailor blanched, and in his stunned silence, Crowley snatched the oar from his hands. The other women seemed to take heart at this display of bravery, turning to Crowley as their new leader and leaving the crewman to his own silent contemplation. 

With the help of Aziraphale and the young widow, Crowley steered their boat back in the direction of the wreck. He navigated mostly by sound, hearing the bleating cry of a whistle and following it. The ocean was calm but was littered with flotsam, their oars occasionally catching on what Crowley hoped was debris and not human bodies. Remembering the matchbook in his pocket, he struck one and held it over the edge of the boat. It provided just enough light to define the shapes of life-vested corpses floating nearby, their skin an eerie shade of blue, eyes frozen in a sightless stare.

The slight movement of water caught Crowley’s ears; so quiet a human may not have heard it. It was a splashing sound, as if someone were slapping the surface of the water. 

“This way,” Crowley pointed in the direction of the sound and they maneuvered the boat carefully through the carnage. 

Striking another match, he saw the outline of a person—a person whose head lifted at the sight of the fire, almost imperceptibly. Crowley and Aziraphale worked together to pull the human from the water. It was a woman, her dress sodden and heavy as well as her life vest. Frost clung to her hair and clumped it together in stiff pieces, her lips completely blue. She was trying to speak to them but she could scarcely make any sound. 

They put her half frozen form in the floor of the boat and the woman who’d been sitting behind Crowley pushed a blanket into his hands, which he heaped around the woman. Aziraphale tended to her, using a minor miracle to ease her pain and warm her slowly from the inside. The whistle sounded again, nearer now. 

“Someone else is still out there,” Crowley said. 

“I hear it too,” Aziraphale replied and pointed over Crowley’s shoulder. “That way! I see something moving.”

It turned out to be more than one person, to Crowley’s surprise. It was a group of men, members of the crew that he recognized. One of them was injured—he’d sprained his ankle badly on his fall into the water and the other foot had gone lame with frostbite. Aziraphale soothed the worst of his pain away as well. The others were unharmed but experiencing extreme hypothermia. The one who’d whistled had the metal stuck to his blue lower lip. 

After that, there was only silence. They all sat, huddled together for warmth and simply waited. Crowley lit the last of his matches, waving them in the air as a signal for help. Several times, he heard murmurings around him that there was a ship ahead—only for them to soon realize it was just another iceberg being slowly exposed by the breaking dawn. 

More time elapsed, though Crowley couldn’t tell you how much. The black sky gave way to a soft pink, illuminating the icefield around them in a rare spectacle of beauty. Hundreds of floating ice palaces on the placid surface of the water. The sun rose with all its usual glory, spreading the golden light of hope over the frozen wasteland. The true magnitude of the disaster became more and more apparent in the light of day. But most frightening was what couldn’t be seen—how little was actually left of the gargantuan ship. 

Their lifeboat had been drifting further and further from the wreckage, Crowley exerting a large amount of power to propel it away from the ice. On the horizon, a small shape appeared, and then two lights, one above the other. There was no mistaking it this time; it was a ship coming to their rescue. A ripple of relieved chatter came from the conscious passengers and Aziraphale offered Crowley a tentative smile, tightening his hold around the demon’s corseted waist. He pressed a kiss to the angel’s forehead, fleeting but tender. 

Within the hour, they were boarding the _Carpathia._ Crowley carried the little boy, who had fallen asleep sometime in the night. The injured man’s able bodied crewmembers each took a side and carried him to a long wooden bench on the ship’s deck to rest. They were the last lifeboat to be pulled from sea and the rest of the survivors were already aboard. They were waiting, hoping to be reunited with their loved ones. 

Almost at once, a bedraggled woman rushed forward, bursting into tears at the sight of the boy in Crowley’s arms. She started speaking tearful German that he couldn’t quite follow and held out her arms to her son, who was rousing at the sound of her voice. Crowley handed him over with a measure of relief, the boy crying out in joy and latching his arms around his mother’s neck. She blew grateful kisses to Crowley as she backed away with her child, offering a stilted english ‘Thank you’. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale said from behind Crowley. “Not that you wouldn’t have made an excellent mother.” 

Crowley cracked a smile and took the angel’s arm, taking advantage of the casual intimacy afforded to female friends of the time. A man with a clipboard approached to take their names, which they finessed with a clever miracle and sent him on his way. They found a spot to sit together and took in scenes of profound joy and profound sadness as the passengers wandered around in shell-shocked desperation. 

A woman was describing her husband frantically to anyone who would listen but they all shook their heads and she became increasingly hysterical. A daughter was reunited with her mother and sister; they huddled together crying and clinging to one another, lamenting the loss of their father and their husbands but rejoicing in their own survival. A rich tapestry of the breadth of human love and suffering spread out before two immortal witnesses who had seen it all countless times before and surely would again. 

The _Carpathia_ docked in New York on the eighteenth of April. The surviving crew were detained on the ship in order to be addressed by a few members of the American government and a man from the Whitestar Line. Crowley lingered secretly to hear the debriefing and it was what he’d expected—the crew were sworn to silence, lest they face twenty years in prison and a permanent black mark upon their record. The crew, being poor working men, couldn’t take that kind of risk. Effectively cowed, they all agreed. 

Crowley and Aziraphale were less than pleased to see that Ismay had survived the ordeal. Andrews and Smith had gone down with the ship, as most honourable men had. 

“Don’t worry,” Crowley said, “He’ll get what’s coming to him in Hell. I’ll see to that personally.”

Aziraphale gave him a darkly satisfied smirk and said, “Good.”

They spent a little time in the city after shifting back to their preferred forms. They had dinner at an upscale Italian bistro and a walk in Central Park before Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and miracled them both back to London. Doing such a long distance teleportation sapped Crowley’s energy and Aziraphale had to support him to keep him from falling when they reappeared in the foyer of the bookshop. 

“My dear, you look exhausted,” Aziraphale fussed, leading him into the backroom where Crowley gratefully collapsed onto the settee. 

Aziraphale puttered around, making tea for the two of them. Crowley stared at the ceiling and listened to the angel filling his kettle. Such normalcy felt bizarre and undeserved to him. Just that morning, they’d disembarked the _Carpathia_ in New York and here they were back in Soho, safe and dry. It was hard to wrap his head around all that had happened in such a small span of time. 

Aziraphale brought Crowley his steaming cup of tea, just the way he liked it, of course. Before he could walk away, Crowley grabbed him by the wrist. They locked eyes and Crowley suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, he pressed a reverent kiss to Aziraphale’s knuckles. The angel raked a hand through Crowley’s wild red hair, scritching gently at his scalp. 

“It’s alright now,” Aziraphale said quietly. 

For whatever reason, the lump in Crowley’s throat chose this moment to break in a sob and Aziraphale was taking his shaking teacup and setting it aside. Crowley wound his arms around the angel’s body and pressed his face into the soft give of his belly. Aziraphale stroked his hair and back, whispering soft words of comfort, until Crowley cried himself out. 

“Rest,” Aziraphale commanded, kissing the crown of his head. 

It was easy to let himself be moved, Aziraphale’s gentle hands arranging his limbs more comfortably on the couch. He summoned up a soft down blanket and draped it over Crowley’s form, putting a little charm on it to help him sleep. In no time at all, Crowley was drifting off into a deep slumber, as dark and fathomless as the ocean. 

* * *

_Epilogue_

Crowley eventually woke up; he only slept for a few months this time, opening his eyes sometime in the middle of August and deciding he’d taken up Aziraphale’s settee for long enough. The angel never seemed to mind his presence and was kind enough to keep the dust off of him while he slept. 

It was with reluctance that he returned to Hell to collect his commendation. They even cut a piece from the newspaper on the disaster and kept it pinned to the community bulletin board for several decades. It never failed to send a chill through Crowley anytime he caught sight of it or if a fellow demon referred to him as “the guy who sank the Titanic”. Only after 1997, did they finally take it down, as a form of protest against the Celine Dion song that was driving everyone mad. (Most of Hell still blames Crowley for the song’s existence and many demons dislike him based on that alone.) 

Aziraphale and Crowley never mentioned it, nor did they mention what had occurred between them aboard the ship. It was back to the Arrangement, as it had always been. Due to his own crippling awkwardness Crowley managed to largely avoid the angel until the Blitz incident. But after that, it was harder and harder to stay apart. And then the antichrist was born and things went a bit sideways. 

After the Apoco-not and their respective separations from Heaven and Hell, they decided it would be safest for them to stay together from then on. And stay together they did, in a lovely cottage in the South Downs with the most verdant garden in the county and the largest personal collection of first editions in the entire United Kingdom. 

The ship is nothing but a memory now—a bleak reminder of the greed and wickedness of which mankind is capable. But at the core of him, Crowley doesn’t regret boarding the ship; not only because of the lives they managed to save but for the brief shining moment he was allowed to touch Aziraphale for the first time. He remembers that every time they make love—which is as often as possible, to make up for all the lost years. 

Even now, curled around him in bed, Crowley would face all the horrors of history a hundred times over for one chance at this happiness; the serenity that comes from the touch of his lovers’ bare skin and the crease of the crows-feet around his eyes when they smile at one another in pale light of morning. 

Yes, he carries a lot of sadness with him, but above all of that, undeniably, there is love.


End file.
